


Forsaken Lands

by Em3kitty



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, SO, accurate middle earth history and geography is accurate, but i just kept writing, but it kinda got taken over, i could have just made shit up, i spent hours on research, idk how long this will be, it better fucking well be, this started as a drabble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15544926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em3kitty/pseuds/Em3kitty
Summary: All elves are born with a number on their wrists - the age they will be when they meet their soulmate.Leberil grew up in a small village, her friends meeting their soulmates at relatively young ages, while hers is uncomfortably large.  Join her as she waits for the long-awaited day she would meet her other half, and what might happen when she does.An Éomer fic that was a prompt on tumblr from imagines-for-the-unpopular and it kind of got away from me. "I overall hate the human race, but you aren't too horrible; bearable, at least."





	Forsaken Lands

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning - Éomer probably isn't going to make an appearance for a while yet.

 3021

That was the number tattooed on the inside of her wrist.

When she was an elfling, her friends had numbers such as _ten_ , or _fifty-two_ . Aside from her, the largest number was _one-hundred and thirty-five_. To know, that she would have to wait an entire age before meeting the one her heart belonged to, the one that would make her whole.

She was ostracized. Not intentionally, no. Never, of course not. It was only…

 _It was only_ …

That was the issue. She was an _only_. By the time a century had past and they had reached their maturity, that small group of eleven young elflings were the only ones in their small farming town, Thúl Dolen, tucked away in the foot of Ered Luin, north of the Gulf of Lhûn, in Forlindon. Too young at heart, too eager to love the world in its newfound peace, too young to remember the Last Alliance in naught but tales, told by their parents, who had sailed to Aman but the year before, the call of the sea too strong.

But that youthful innocence, that love of the world, quickly faded, and for one elf in particular. Leberil had a tattoo like any other, and sure, the number was high, but at least she had a number; or that is what she told herself. The worst of it, however, was the script with harsh corners and jarring angles. In comparison to the sarati that lived upon the wrists of her friends, the language was haunting and unfamiliar.

Seeing the age she would be when she met her other half should be comforting - _at least she has another half_ \- or that is what she tells herself, over, and over, and over, until one day she may truly believe it.

* * *

 

Years past, and the aptly named Leberil - _horse maiden_ \- grew more recluse and more cynical, tending to the horses for the farmers in this minuscule village. Although tucked into the foothills, during the spring in particular, late autumn too, the village was a popular thoroughfare for travellers heading for the Gulf of Lhûn, following the summer festivals that lasted months in Mithlond. Despite all this, Leberil would never allow her cynicism to consume her; she had to meet her soulmate after all.

One day, a strange man came stumbling into Thúl Dolen, dragging a weary mare behind him. Leberil, at the age of 400 — give or take a decade or two — had never seen a man before. Their farming village was so sheltered, not even the dwarves that resided on the east of the mountains wished to venture.

With wide blue eyes, she watched as he collapsed, not three metres from her stables. Slowly, she approached the unconscious man, her long pale fingers tentatively reaching out, unsure if he was a figment of her imagination. A pain-filled groan started the young elf, her long, wild blonde hair falling in her face.

Snapping out of her thoughts, Leberil quickly lifted the man in her arms, and brought the man to Faervel, the villages healer, before returning to tend to the exhausted horse.

* * *

 

Days past, and still the man did not wake. Leberil couldn’t describe it, but there was this gut feeling, deep inside, she _needed_ this man to wake.

Never before had she had such a strong to connection to someone, a need for them to stay, to wake, to _be_.

If the elves of the village had not grown up around Leberil, they would not have been able to tell just how anxious she really was. One might of assumed it was merely a passing concern; she was the one to find him after all.

However, her friends knew better.

Nursing the tired and ruggard horse back to health, Leberil paid special attention to the mans horse, a way for her to vent her frustrations, something to keep her mind busy, to prevent her from visiting Faervel every day and asking after the stranger.

* * *

 

Finally, daybreak of the stranger’s eighth day under Faervel’s care brought the awakening of more than just the village, but the stranger too.

By the time Leberil became aware of the strangers state of wakening, she had sat down for her midday meal underneath an oak tree, overlooking the pastures that her horses preferred to roam. With a smile, she watched as the black mare, with hair that matched the obsidian Sernil had brought with her from her journey to Ered Engrin last summer. The stranger had brought the stunning mare with him pranced about playfully with her young foal, as if she, too were a newborn foal.

“Don’t get too attached to her.”

The amused voice of Faervel startled her from her thoughts, and glancing up, she met the gaze of the young healer, a delighted glint in his eyes that reminded her of jasper.

“Faervel, a pleasant surprise. What brings you out here to my fields today?”

The healers mouth twitched into a smile, like it was fighting a secret that was eager to gush forth like a mountain spring.

“Oh? Haven’t you heard?” Faervel’s light voice was even lighter as it danced with a teasing joy. Paired with the glint in his eye and the smile upon his lips, his words could only lead to mischief, as it once did when he was an elfling.

Leberil’s empty stare in response was answer enough for the young healer. Extending his hand, he offered to help her up from where she was curled among the roots of the tree. The glimpse of the curling script on Faervel’s wrist was an ever-present reminder of Leberil’s own marking; the harsh penmanship hidden beneath long, flowing sleeves.

Accepting his assistance, Leberil stood, and with her spare hand, reached out and gave a slight tug to the ends of Faervel’s dark hair.

“Whatever you think you’re going to do - don’t.”

The mischievous glint only grew brighter.

“So, you don’t want to go see our mysterious guest that woke this morning?”

A light slap on the arm and a scowl upon her face was answer enough, as Faervel lead Leberil to the healing house.


End file.
